


Needle And Thread

by barghest



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Memories, References to Canon, Sewing, reaper zine 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 20:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15081299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barghest/pseuds/barghest
Summary: written and published as part of the reaper zine 2018! all proceeds have gone to charity, and i was very excited to a part of this wonderful zine. now that everyone has their copies, we have been given permission to post our submissions, so here it is! sorry i can't be bothered to summarise properly.





	Needle And Thread

The thread passes through the needle between Gabriel’s fingers, as it has thousands of times before, and will do for thousands of times to come. He barely feels the prick of the needle against his palm now, rough skin cushioning the tip as he pulls the thread through, fibers curling up towards the light. The dip of the needle into the fabric on his desk is rhythmic - one stitch, two stitch, three as his hand loops back and forth - and he feels the day’s tension leave his shoulders. Here at his desk, he remembers every item that has passed beneath his needle. A handful come to mind as he works.

His mama’s favourite blouse - when she first taught him how to sew, her dark curls brushing his shoulders as she leaned over to direct him, she had handed him the flower patterned shirt and shown him the split seam. He remembers the shine on her wedding ring and the chips in her nail polish as she guided his needle, pinching the fabric together for him. He remembers the crinkles beside her eyes as she beamed at him, his wobbly stitches straightening out as he grew more confident. He remembers the blood spots on the hem where he pricked himself, and how she had waved away his concern.

“That’s an easy fix, Gabi,” she had held the blouse up to the light, finger and thumb pinched around the fixed seam as she caressed it. “You did the hard part for me.”

A pair of uniform pants - another seam to close, hugging tight to his legs for a promotion ceremony. He remembers unpicking the hem to cover his ankles, no money to frivolously buy a better fitting pair before he turned to the sewing kit on his desk. The curve of his wrist had strengthened with practice, pushing needle through fabric as rhythmic as his breathing. It had fascinated Morrison, occupying the opposing bunk in their tiny room, his uniform freshly pressed from the barracks laundry.

“Think you could teach me sometime?” He looked all eager, hair neatly scraped back and cheeks pink from the cold outside.

“Maybe,” surly as he had looked, Gabe was sure he had been smiling. “What do I get in return?” The answer had been knitted socks in Morrison’s next care package from home, and a week of not cleaning their shared accomodation. A worthy trade, he could still say.

Agent McCree’s frayed binder - too nervous to take it to Overwatch’s tailors and too stubborn to order a new one, the kid knocked on his door at the end of a night watch, engulfed in a Blackwatch sweater two sizes too big. He had paced Gabe’s office, bony hands shoved in his pockets as Gabe repaired the fastenings, a tangled mess of limbs and nerves and unkempt hair that eluded Gabe’s every attempt to cut it.

“There’s plenty of budget room for a new one,” he had commented, his spool of black thread thinning beneath his fingers. McCree had shook his head, spinning a ring around his thumb in place of his firearm.

“Naw, this one’s good.”

“What about a haircut.” Another shake of the head. Gabe had looked up for a moment, thimble protecting his thumb from the point of his needle, “you’ll have to cut it sometime.” The grateful glow in McCree’s eyes softened him enough for him to wave the kid away in the end, clippers lying dormant in his desk drawer.

A skirt for Ana - made with the sewing machine she gifted him, determined for him to labour for less hours over a handful of stitches. They spent an afternoon learning how to use it together, Ana’s camera on hand to document the process.

“I’ve got to show Fareeha,” was her excuse, snapping away as Gabe experimented with the foot pedal. “She’ll be so proud.” He had humoured her with small smiles, and allowed her back to watch him practise on a few odd garments, repairing holes and attaching patches. When she finally flitted away, he had pulled out the fabric that he had bought specially for her. A flock of birds spiralled up from where he lay the bottom hem, their wings spread against a sky as blue as that above Gibraltar. 

“Pockets!,” he remembers the way her eyes crinkled up with joy when she unwrapped it, holding it up to show the others. “Oh, Gabe! It has pockets!”

His favourite Halloween costume - a labour of love under the harsh lighting in his office, set to a cool blue to keep him awake as he had sewn outside of work hours. Scars still pit his fingertips where he let them stray before the machine’s needle, dark spots soaking into the fabric before he had a chance to blot them out. Mama’s tricks saved the pumpkin orange of his shirt from stains, and stiffened the collar to rise around his head, like the black peaks of a stormy mountain range. Very dramatic, he told himself, hoping others would think the same.

“Mein gott!,” was his first proof, an old friend stumbling back as he had burst through the door. “A monster!” His chest had felt light and warm as their small gathering pulled into compliment him, to touch his cloak in admiration of the craftsmanship (Torbjorn) or to stand back to capture the whole ensemble (Ana). They scrape Reinhardt off the floor so he can shake Gabe to the bone through his hand. His face hurts from smiling.

His hoodie - a comfort item by this point, worn to the shape of his muscles and the stretch of his chest. Too sentimental to order in a new one, he had taken to repairing it himself, patching worn thin areas with fresh black fabric, weaving new thread in where the old had frayed. It had scars to press against his, faded areas and stretch marks and hand stitches holding it together. Like a second skin, it molds to him when he slips into it in the morning, the scent of gunpowder and detergent welcome as he breathes it in.

It is a home on his back, when base feels less and less like one. One that Jack - or anyone else for that matter - can’t tear away from him.

The dark mass of fabric beneath his fingers now as he sews - pooling onto his lap and down his legs, flowing between his hands as if too liquid to be bound by needle and thread. When he tries to gather it up, it only pulls away to chase the tendrils of shadow that creep out from his sleeves. (Something to mention to Moira, when they next meet.) He can only sink his needle into it and watch as it is consumed by the fabric, plunging through the other side into his hand. It buries itself to the hilt - and still he doesn’t bleed. 

He does not remember how the fabric came to be in his possession. He does not know what he will do with it. 

One day he will throw it around his shoulders and it will fall into a cloak over him, its peak concealing the skeletal outline of his face. From the ashes of Zurich, he will emerge without tear or stain of its pitch black cloth, bound by the clawed hand of an organisation lurking in Overwatch’s shadows. 

In time, the Reaper’s hands will slow when they pass over the battered sewing box in the nightstand of his room, the tendons in his wrist twitching in memory, but the box will remain unopened. The thread will rot, frayed where it has been pushed through the needle’s eye, but the Reaper will remember.


End file.
